


family recipe

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post Chapter 7 POR Spoilers, Radiance Zine 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 07:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19194052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: and like that, oscar found himself following yet another new leader.





	family recipe

**Author's Note:**

> howdy! this was made for the path of radiance fan-zine, "Radiance," which you can find on twitter! everyone worked mega hard on it, so please make sure to check it out if you (like me) are a big mega fan of tellius! thank you!

Oscar never imagined anything could feel worse than his father’s death. 

The news slapped him across his gobsmacked face. Mother left ages ago. Boyd and Rolf couldn’t quite take care of themselves while Oscar played knighthood among the Crimean Royals. He was due to be promoted soon, as Kieran oft reminded him with verbose huffiness. But with Father gone, the doors for those futures - ones with promised stability - slammed shut. With gritted teeth and shaking hands, Oscar turned in his resignation letter the following day.

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” his captain said, eyes laced with sympathy. “I pray Ashera gives your father’s soul rest, as he so deserves.”

“Thank you,” Oscar said, almost managing to keep the cracks out of his voice, “sir.”

The months that followed became riddled with dredgework; Oscar demoted himself into an errand boy, offering his services in every way he could. He rescued cats. Mended thatches. Washed dishes. He tried his hand as a merchant for about two weeks, only for the pay to be less than promised. While Boyd and Rolf ate, Oscar controlled his portions in an effort to save up meager amounts of money. The oddball jobs never ended, but never really stuck around, either. Without Father’s paycheck (or the Royal Knights exuberant salary), a good life seemed to be just a distant memory.

Boyd and Rolf deserved better. Oscar knew that. He wanted to give them that “better,” no matter what. 

And so, he wound up on Greil’s doorstep. 

Greil’s demeanor commanded respect, oozing with years of experience. His mercenary band, comprised of few members, held an honorable reputation around Crimea. It was a long shot, but if Oscar could prove himself to be useful, if he could show he was more than just a 21-year-old kid pretending to be an adult, then maybe Greil would offer him a position.

However, Greil did something Oscar never anticipated - he offered more than the position, but a place for Rolf and Boyd to stay as well. Sleeping outside or in ramshackled shelters would no longer be the norm. A bed to call home, a table to set meals on. When Greil offered this, Oscar’s patient facade crumbled into ugly, tired sobbing for the first time in months since the announcement of Father’s passing.

Greil gave him one heavy pat on the shoulder and said nothing. Just like that, the miserable pressure crushing Oscar was slightly relieved by the most unlikely of allies.

And with little fanfare, the three were adopted into the Greil Mercenaries. 

Oscar believed the darkest times were far behind him. His work with the others would simply continue onward. He convinced himself that Greil would always be leading the charge, and that he and Titania would follow-up behind him in every mission thereafter. He would come home to the ever-sickly Rhys for mending, nag Rolf to take better care of his dirtied clothes, and laugh with Boyd about the dumb things he did that day while making dinner . Life would remain peaceful, the gods willing.

But the gods willed otherwise.

Ike’s face, soaked with rain and poorly hidden anguish, told Oscar everything before he could even stammer out the horrible news.

“Father’s…”

Gone. Even a day later, with a full cycle of sunrise and sunset, Oscar had some difficulty wrapping his head around it. Greil’s sudden absence hung over the encampment, swallowing up the everyday chatter that otherwise bounced off the stone walls. He would never come back through the front door with a loud holler to celebrate a successful mission. He would never sit at the head of the table, stabbing his meats with more force than necessary, while recounting tales from his youth. His confident laughter would never give Oscar that much needed reassurance that everything would be all right - no matter how grim any given situation looked.

His knife stilled. The carrot pieces were crooked and uneven, splayed out on the cutting board like amatuer soldiers unsure where to stand on the battlefield. Beside him, the pot bubbled and boiled and almost spat its contents into the magical fire Soren (ever so kindly) produced. It needed to be stirred. He needed to get the ladle and stir, but even the simplest actions evaded his fingertips. Instead, he stared at a carrot piece, lopsided and mangled, until his eyes watered.

Someone walked around him and took it upon themselves to stir the pot. Oscar blinked and glanced over.

“Hey,” Ike said, expression carefully neutral. “Mind if I give a hand?”

Ike specialized in three things: naps, eating, and swordplay. Mist often tacked on “listening” from the kindness of her heart, but half the time he spaced out mid-conversation to daydream. Cooking was neither of Greil’s kids’ forte. Mist tried at least, although none of her dishes were edible (yet). Ike was hopeless. Everyone knew that. _Ike_ knew that.

Oscar peered past Ike and into the meeting room. A lone candle burned in the center of the table. Soren’s papers and maps covered one end while Rolf’s half-made bow sat on the other. Rhys’s tinticatures stood neatly in the spare corner, and Boyd’s headband draped over one of the chairs. Not a whisper to be heard; everyone else had scattered somewhere, leaving the base hauntingly empty. He returned his gaze to Ike, who sniffed at the pot. Maybe the silence was getting to him.

“I don’t see why not,” he answered. His knife resumed its rhythmic chops, filling the space between them. The carrots were irredeemable presentation-wise. Oh well. It was all going to the same place anyhow. He dumped them into the boiling broth as Ike watched.

“You’re really good at this,” he said.

Oscar’s chest swelled in pride, allowing a small smile to grace his lips. “You think so? Thank you. It makes me happy every time you say that. But this isn’t exactly my best performance, and I’m sorry about that.”

Ike grunted a response, stirring the stew with a little more force than necessary. His stare flickered to the pile of green beans waiting to be chopped. “Did cooking come naturally to you? Or is it a hidden talent?”

Small talk. _Ike_ was making _small talk._ Oscar humored him a brief chuckle before replying, “No, no talent here. It took quite some time before my brothers would even touch my food. I’d use too much spice one day, then not enough the next. Talk about a tough crowd. And Rolf! Rolf can be such a picky eater sometimes - nowhere near as bad as Soren, of course - so trying to juggle that _and_ Boyd’s love for meat was _such_ a hassle in the beginning.”

“So you worked at it for awhile, then.”

“Right. Made a lot of mistakes in the process too, but now I can make nearly everyone here happy with whatever I whip up.”

Ike stopped stirring. He stoked the fire a bit with the fire poker, then pinched the bridge of his nose, brow furrowing.

“Do you think it’s possible to get better at leading like my Father did _without_ making mistakes?”

The strain in his voice halted Oscar’s hands. He took a moment to look at Ike - _actually_ look at Ike - and saw the harrowed, darkened circles beneath his eyes, the unkempt tangles in his hair, his lips drawn in a tight line, and his battered fingers swollen from extraneous practice for a distraction. While Mist sobbed outwardly, Ike handled things internally - just as his late-father did. Hearing him sound like the vulnerable teenager he actually _was_ made Oscar’s heart ache.

It was like looking at his younger self through a different lense.

Except Oscar never had premature leadership thrust upon him. Ike no longer juggled his own life now, but everyone else’s, too. Oscar could only imagine the pressure, especially with Gatrie and Shinon taking their leave; less mercenaries to watch one another’s back. He dumped the green beans into the broth before reaching out and giving Ike a solid, heavy pat on the shoulder.

“You’ll make them” he answered truthfully, “but we’re all going to be here to catch you when you stumble.”

“Those mistakes could cost lives. Lives of my _friends._ Of my family.” Ike swallowed hard and fiddled with his bandana. “I don’t think I can handle it if that happens.”

“Ike.” Oscar shook his shoulder, and Ike looked to him, eyes widened slightly. “Being in this company has taught me to have faith in Greil. You, being Greil’s son, have a natural knack at leadership.” He smiled. “If you can’t believe in yourself, then believe in those who believe in you. Believe in those who stayed here, by your side, and have faith in our decisions to follow your lead. We don’t expect you to be perfect. Greil sure wasn’t, Ashera knows. Just take it one day at a time, one step at a time.”

Ike dipped his gaze to the floor while chewing his bottom lip. Oscar released him and stood in front of the countertop, picking up the uncut onion and spinning it.

“Greil has faith in you, too.” He peeled the outer skin of the onion. “That’s why he didn’t leave Shinon or Titania to lead the mercenaries. He entrusted it to _you._ At the very least, believe in _him_ \- as we all did until the very end. As we still do.”

A beat passed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s just me being honest out loud. In not so many words, I know you’re going to do well. And I’ll help see you through it ‘til the end.”

And it was true. If Oscar had his way, he would stay with the Greil Mercenaries to the ends of the earth and to the end of time. Ike was new at all of this, sure, but that didn’t dampen Oscar’s resolve. Instead, he wanted to see the growth of the company under Ike’s lead. To abandon the Mercenaries now would be a disgrace to everything Greil gave him.

This was the very least he could do to thank Greil for all he did - even if it was a little too late. Well. He managed a smile - the first one since his late-commander’s passing. No time like the present to make up for regrets.

“Thank you,” he tried. 

“Thank you?” Ike appeared surprised. “For what?”

“For helping with dinner. It’s nice to have extra hands.” Sure, it was a half-truth, but he didn’t want to make his assistant skittish with an overabundance of appreciation. There would be many, many more opportunities in the future. Oscar sliced the onion in half.

“Thank _you._ ” He rose and returned a small, albeit tired, smile. “For… everything, I guess.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t even mention it.” The knife diced the onion into teeny tiny pieces. He sniffed. “You’ll make me cry. Well, if _this_ doesn’t get to me first.”

Ike stared at him for a long moment, perplexed, before blinking rapidly and covering his face. “Gods! What is that! I can’t see from how badly my eyes are watering!”

Oscar laughed through the blubbering waterfall running down his face. He couldn’t tell if it was strictly the offensive onion or if his grief played a part, too. He wiped his face on his sleeve, shaking his head. “Some vegetables do that,” he said, gesturing to the maimed onion. “Such is the price to pay for excellent culinary experiences.”

“You call this _worth it?_ ” Ike rubbed his eyes with his hands and turned away. “I am never eating that ever again.”

“It’s good for you, I promise.”

“How can something like that be _good_ for you? Gods, make it stop already. I’m going to lose my weight’s worth of water.”

“Ahaha! You should have seen Boyd’s face the first time _he_ cut an onion. Went all beet-red and puffy. Don’t tell him I told you that, though.”

The conversation appeared to cheer Ike up, even if just a little bit. The stifling silence was nowhere to be found. Promises of dinner lured the others back home one by one: Rhys arrived first, harried from his patch-jobs on Boyd; Boyd put his dirty boots up on the table, prompting a lighthearted smack atop his head from Mist and Rolf; Titania set down bowls at each spot while Soren, gaze flitting from Ike to Mist and back again, busied himself with removing all the personal effects littering the table.

The stew didn’t quite taste the same, and the dinnertime banter wasn’t the same either. But both were filled with new flavors, with promises of improvement. 

To honor Greil’s memory, nothing else would have sufficed.

Oscar smiled, and swallowed down the last of his broth. He glanced skyward, and set his bowl down.

_Good work as always, Commander._


End file.
